Only Human
by defectivebrainstorm
Summary: Dib's thoughts that lead to his actions before Zim's scheduled vivisection. One-shot.


**A/N: Dib's thoughts that lead to his actions before Zim's scheduled vivisection. Dib's older in this fic, I'm thinking like sixteen or so. Contains swearing and some gruesome-ness. One-shot. I do not own Invader Zim. **

I went to a play once.

It was a Shakespearean production, done in the traditional old English style and to be honest I don't know what possessed me to go. I'd always been a more science orientated kind of guy; literature and the arts were pretty far down on my list of priorities, around the same place as pop culture and the opposite sex. But then I always did have an appreciation for Shakespeare; his words were powerful stuff, and I mean someone's works that are still considered to be one of the most fantastic things to ever hit the planet even in today's society deserves some level of respect and acknowledgment.

Anyways the play was a version of Hamlet, which was, admittedly, mediocre at best, but sitting in one of the back rows, taking a break from the glare of my computer screen, I found myself enjoying it all the same. It stuck with me for some reason and, turning it over in my mind today as I waited for the light to change at the cross-walk, I realized why that was.

In my own mind maybe I myself had some Hamlet-like attributes; I wasn't out for revenge or anything with my escapades, but I was working under the influence of something no one else believed was true. With Hamlet he was out for his Uncle's blood after visiting with the spirit of his late father; another classic tale of vengeance. My own version of Hamlet was a lot more absurd, unbelievable and devoid of the motivation of retribution.

In my case I was out to stop the alien who had come and threatened my world, my home. That was something beyond even the imaginations of Shakespeare. However I was tied to Hamlet by the fact that A) no one seemed to believe Zim was out to destroy us all and B) nobody seemed to believe he was an alien, period. No one would have believed Hamlet had seen a ghost, and without the confession from his Uncle Hamlet wouldn't even be able to justify his actions to himself. I knew my theory of Zim's being an alien was solid; I had more than enough proof, so I guess mine and Hamlet's situations were pretty different. But I think at the core what it was that made me think I was linked to Hamlet's character was the fact that on this mission I was completely on my own, and was the only one convinced I was a hundred percent sane about this whole thing.

So due to that line of thinking, one would naturally think that as my enemy, Zim would have represented King Claudius' character, in this mutated, crack version of Hamlet (I do apologize to Shakespeare's spirit for dissecting and then regurgitating his work. Please don't haunt me, Mr. Shakespeare; I already have more than enough paranormal issues). And for the longest time that's what I thought too; he was the enemy and I was the self-proclaimed hero out to stop him. Although I suppose I was one fucked up hero; I mean most heroes are out for the good of others and what not; I was really just out to stop Zim from destroying the world because hey, it was my god damn world, I lived here, I needed it in order to indeed stay alive. I was having trouble picking out select people that also motivated me to go after Zim, thwart him again and again. Even if I could look past the fact that my classmates were nasty to me and labelled me a freak, they were stupid and self-centered and would never really amount to anything great. What was the point of protecting them? Most grown-up people were the same way. The human population didn't seem to offer me a lot of reason to protect it, nor in fact did it seem to even want to be saved; we were destroying our own planet long before Zim showed up after all.

But then there were a few things, when I really felt depressed and hopeless and alone about the whole thing, that gave me a reason to keep on fighting. Gaz for one thing I suppose; she was the one person in the world that could honestly say I cared about. I mean she was a right little she-demon sure, especially to me, but she was my sister, she'd helped me out a few times (even if it wasn't out of the goodness of heart) and she tethered me to this world of ours, really. She was the only constant company at home, what with Dad being gone so often, and even if she wasn't the best of company it still mad me feel less lonely and frightened at night if I could hear her clicking away at the buttons on a controller, absorbed in some video game or other. For whatever reason and whatever it meant to me, she counted for something in my mind, and that had to mean something.

Also, I'd have these moments sometimes, when I least expected them and from strange, everyday sources. Like watching a mother rocking her baby while sitting on a park bench, or a father attaching a bandage to the skinned knee of a little girl. On one occasion it had been a girl who checked out one of the only fiction books I'd read and liked from the library, and another time it was one guy keeping a wary eye on another, who I'd assumed had been his brother, as he walked along a high brick wall over head, arms out for balance and grinning recklessly. It was these little pieces of humanity and compassion that stuck in my brain like bright little shining pieces of polished glass, twinkling stars in the darkness of my brooding. And they gave me a reason to keep going after Zim, risking life and limb time and time again, spending precious energy better used for my other paranormal studies. Not only that, they gave me hope for my race, hope that there things like empathy and loyalty still existed, that maybe one day things would get better.

I'm getting of topic aren't I? I guess I just meant that those things, whatever drive I had, kept me chasing after Zim when he was up to some devious if faulty plan or other. So in my mind, for ages now, he had been the bad guy and I was the good guy. Even more then that we were rivals, we had a personal vendetta against the other and so whatever battles we got into had a good deal of grudge behind them. It was a personal thing, not some faceless spy vs. spy hunt, and maybe that's why I found myself doing what I'd never believe I'd ever do.

In the end, I realized now, Zim was more than just some foe to be defeated, and that sort of bothered me I guess. But that just goes to show that despite how I came to be created and how I acted, I was, deep inside, only human. And humans form these sorts of meaningless attachments that drive them to do crazy things just like this.

Going back to my whole Hamlet theory, Zim had come to represent another character other then Claudius. I suppose he could have been like the King's ghost as well, my motivation, the weird little paranormal thing that no one else would have believed in. But more than that he was Horatio. Not in the sense that Horatio was Hamlet's dear friend and the only ally he had that he could trust, Lord no. But there was a tiny sliver in Zim that made me think well, if I was the Hamlet in this fucker-up remake, then he was Horatio. And that sliver, that reason, was simple:

He was the only tie to my sanity.

Horatio, too, had seen the ghost and been told by Hamlet what the ghost had said. Even if everyone else thought Hamlet was insane, Horatio knew the truth, knew that there had been some external, otherworldly force that spurred all of Hamlet's actions thereafter.

Zim was the only proof, the only physical, corporeal, living, breathing, touchable proof I'd ever had to show shove in someone's face and show them everything I'd been saying was right, that there were other things beyond what we could see, beyond our own petty existence. And that was something that was invaluable to me. I guess I was a bit obsessive about everything I did and I knew it was foolish to try and pass on these obsessions and findings to others who just flat out were blind to them, didn't give a shit about it. But fuck, this was my passion in life, my purpose, everything that I focused on and craved to learn about and to be labelled insane because of it, laughed at and ridiculed, it burned deep inside. I hate to say it hurt, because I feel weak to think that these idiots that surround me have such an effect on my emotions, but it does. It hurts. Not the personal acceptance, I couldn't give a damn about their friendship or even respect; who wanted that from them? But the acceptance of my work, of all the hours and energy I pour into a project, something I find fascinating and simply amazing, mind boggling, humbling, and have it all ignored and worse, torn down and stomped on, it was excruciating. Artists must feel the same way when people don't understand or appreciate their work; some of this world's greatest creators and geniuses have put a bullet in their head due to the ignorance of people around them and I won't lie here, I've had that thought run through my head from time to time as well. It's simply horrid to be trapped in an existence where you know you're something unique, somebody with thoughts and ideas that crash and burn in the face of the your peers. It's even worse when you realize that that gets to you, even though it shouldn't.

I just wanted people to wake up and realize they weren't the only things out there, that there were amazing and horrifying things all around us that slipped under our radar, there was more to life then movie stars and clothing sizes. I'd struggled to do it all my life, just to have one person, one single other being, to stop, look at me and say hey, you know, Dib's got a point here, this is fascinating and I want to know more about these things. Belief from just one person would have been glorious; acceptance, assistance and maybe even friendship from someone who shared my views and passion for the paranormal would have been just... jeez I don't know. I doubt I ever will.

That's that human fault thing again, the hunger for acknowledgement, for acceptance, companionship. Bloody useless if you ask me, but there you go, it's only human. And I am, unfortunately, only human.

Again I'm getting side-track... anyways, when Zim came careening into my life he wasn't a friend, wasn't acceptance or any of those things I was starving for. But he was something solid, real, sitting three desks away from me, that made all that effort worth it, all my suffering and time validated by this one single specimen. Sure it frustrated me to no end to have my moronic classmates once again be oblivious to this obvious non-human create sitting right in front of their eyes. But it also gave me drive, gave me something to try and achieve, gave me a purpose really. I mean if I were to catch him, show him to someone, have him cut open and all his alien meat exposed, people would finally realize hey, Dib was right all along. And in a totally egotistical way I'd always imagined I'd love that. It's what I'd been craving all my life after all, proof that my work wasn't a waste of time, that there was other things out there besides us on our little planet, and that I _wasn't_ insane, thank you very much. That's all I'd wanted. Well that and to keep my world from being destroyed or myself turned into a slave for the Irken race of course.

So I think that's where it all started, this trigger that set of a domino sequence in my head. Zim gave me purpose, he made it all seem worth it in the end. He even fed my curiosity, of course unknowingly, as I was able to learn much about his world and others in the far reaches of the galaxy. It gave me extremely malnourished brain food to gnaw on and devour, much needed exercise and nutrition. He kept me on my toes, kept me busy, and even though most of the time I got into situations that were not amusing by any stretch of the imagination, I can't say that somehow I didn't find any of it fun. It was a very large, twisted, life-or-death game with Zim and I think we both, deep down in some little fraction or another, enjoyed playing it. We hated each other of course, but in that sense we made sure the other always had something to do and keep him occupied, interested. Zim and I were sworn enemies of course, but the rivalry between us stretched beyond the usual sort of hero-to-villain resentment. The fact that we always seemed to be competing, chases full of near-misses and never complete victories, kept us thirsty and eager for more.

He was a worthy advisory, I'd give him that.

And so maybe I have this chivalrous side to me. Or maybe it was my own damn need to see it ended with my own eyes, by my own hand.

Whatever it was, all these things over the years must have been collected somewhere in the back of my mind and now they were bursting free to the front, nagging at me and making my head hurt for hours now, until finally I'd gotten up and started walking with only half a mind to what I was doing.

I felt the doors whoosh open around me, the familiar laboratory smell hitting my receptors hard; this smell had been a constant to me since I was a wriggling, pink baby. Nobody stopped me or asked what I was doing as I stalked down the long, white hallways, boots thudding softly across the shiny, sterile floors. A few people looked up and waved briefly or nodded and then carried on with what they were doing. I was no stranger here and besides, I was Professor Membrane's son, I was the One Who Had Captured the Alien. Nobody was going to ask me questions; nobody was going to deny me entrance.

And for that I was grateful, because if anyone did ask me I wouldn't have had a clue what to tell them.

I reached the observation arena above the operation room, an exclusive place indeed; only a handful of other scientists had the honour of taking a seat here, about to witness one of the most momentous events in human history. This was right up there with finding King Tutankhamen's tomb and the first landing on the moon.

I walked down the narrow aisle between the velvety seats, which ironically enough reminded me very much of the seats I'd sat in while watching that production of Hamlet. I stopped finally before the tinted Plexiglas and stared down into the cold, disinfected room beneath, which was washed with a dull glow of light, nothing like the usual harsh brightness of an emergency room. Blinking machinery and trays of shining tools flickered away down there as scientists moved about silently, preparing for the procedure. And among it all I was able to pick him out where he was bolted to a stainless steel table, my nemesis, my constant headache, my purpose.

I expected him to be shouting obscenities and fighting like mad, throwing out any harebrained insult that came to him. But he was uncharacteristically quiet, mouth a thin, grim line and his body completely still. He wasn't relaxed of course, you could see how taut his muscles were even from here, but his body never shook, never flinched or trembled. I took it this meant he had accepted his fate, he knew he had simply shut done, prepared to give we humans no satisfaction by seeing fear or hopelessness on his face. He was completely impassive and this surprised me; it wasn't like him to accept defeat like this, to simply shut himself off and ignore what was going on. He'd always been one to put up a fight, make a huge deal of things, screeching and cursing away almost comically.

However this state of resolve he'd taken up, this calm demeanour also put an end to my indecision, and I knew what I'd come here to do was what was meant to be done. The way he was handling this situation, like a soldier who'd accepted his own fate and was prepared to go down fearless and noble, it, like Shakespeare's works, demanded a certain amount of respect.

Like I said, he'd always been a very worthy advisory.

He deserved a better death then this, to die slowly in the hands of the enemy, his insides spilled and drowning in his own juices, possibly screaming in pain, his last moments filled with agony and humiliation. For all the times I'd wished him dead and spread on an autopsy table, for all the times I'd cursed him and screamed out in frustration with him and the troubles he caused me, I didn't think he deserved to go like this. Dissection, the examining of a dead subject, was one thing, but vivisection? That was another.

And besides. He was _my_ rival, he was _my_ enemy, _I'd_ been the one from the begging to see him for what he was, to pursue him like a stubborn dog, to save the planet from him again and again. He was _my_ god damn alien, _mine_; and he was what gave me a purpose, my own sanity and validation, and in the end he was finally my proof, finally something that allowed me to show people I was right, I wasn't crazy, that they were the ones who were wrong, not me. Even now, when I'd go back to scratching about the dirt, tracking all the creatures from myths and the spirit world, I'd have this, this absolution and this thing to show people that hey, I'd been right before, and that my work wasn't all hocus-pocus bullshit.

Therefore it only made sense that he should die by no hands but mine. That's how it was supposed to be between the two of us.

And after all he'd done for me, never realizing it of course and in a very twisted and sad way, he at least deserved a quick, peaceful death.

So I reached back and removed what I'd jammed between the small of my back and my belt, so aptly hidden by my trench coat. It felt foreign and heavy in my hand, but soothing somehow too and I took a step back from the window and took aim.

I heard the three things in the moments that followed; the first was the crack of the gun when I pulled the trigger, jolting in my hand and sending a numbing feeling up my arm. The second was the squeal of the Plexiglas as the bullet went through and turned the pane into an explosion of glittering shards. And the third was the dull thud as the bullet pierced his green skin and drilled deep into his alien brain. His red eyes glazed over only seconds later; instant death from that dark little splinter.

I turned on my heel and strode away from the scene as the other scientists all gapped at me and alarms started going off. I replaced the gun; it was useless now anyways, it only had one bullet. It had only ever had one bullet, a safety-net of sorts for myself in the sickest, most ironic sense of the word. If it all crashed down on me one day, if it all got to be too much, the unvented anger, the humiliation and the failures, the loneliness and the rejection of my soul's works, well, at least I'd always had one way out, one sort of comfort, control of my own fate.

And now I no longer needed that safety-net, that one bullet and so instead it was nestled deep in the cooling flesh of Zim's brain.

It's funny in a way I suppose; on that bullet I'd engraved the word 'home'. I suppose I thought of the other-world, whatever lies beyond life, as more of my home then this one, since I barely seemed to belong to this world. So maybe that's why I'd carved it there; that bullet was meant to take me home, somewhere at last were I might be appreciated, where I might feel like I was more alive, by way of some strange paradox. But no, that word had ended up in Zim's head, not mine, and yet that too somehow made sense.

In the end he was meant to kill me or I was meant to kill him; that's just how it was. He would have killed me because I was in his way; I in turn had killed him because he had threatened my existence and the existence of my entire world. So that's why he was dead there on that table, later probably to be taken apart and examined, preserved in different jars and the back of a freezer. I'd killed him in defence of my home, and it was fitting that that was the word on the bullet I'd used.

Home because he had threatened my world. But also home in some weird way of thanks I think, because deep down, he gave my place in it.


End file.
